Always Read the Instruction Manual
by Alyndra
Summary: Voldemort has a plan. Plan doesn't go quite well. Now he's stuck in Harry's head. Who will go insane first?
1. The Plan

Disclaimer: I did not, actually, invent the characters mentioned herein. Someone else did. JK Rowling, I think the name is. If I could write as well as she does, I'd be rich and famous too. Maybe. Anyway, I make no money off of this. None whatsoever. So please don't sue.  
  
Spoilers: If you haven't yet read all the books up through OotP, what are wasting your time reading fanfic for?  
  
Dedicated to my sister, without whom this would still be sitting on my computer and I'd never post anything.  
  
A/N: So, after lurking around the Harry Potter fanfic world for way too long, and writing sporadically, I've finally decided to post this. It will be the first time anyone other than my sister has seen any of my work. But I'll save review-begging until the end.  
  
------oooooo------  
  
He was widely considered to be the best (or worst, depending on your point of view) Dark Lord since Grindelwald. Some even said that he surpassed Grindelwald, and although it might be claimed that they really weren't about to say anything else in the interests of self-preservation, the claim probably wasn't too far from the truth.  
The position of Dark Lord carried with it certain responsibilities, however. And Voldemort was finding that there just weren't enough hours in the day to do everything a really top-notch Dark Lord should be doing. First on his list of priorities, for example, was the eternal duty of villains; he had to make the hero as miserable as possible before the inevitable final confrontation. This seemed fairly easy, actually; all he had to do was give the Potter brat constant nightmares. The Potter brat, however, was more jaded than anyone his age had a right to be, and the old shadowy-creatures-under-the-bed type of nightmares just weren't having enough of an effect. It was only three weeks into summer vacation, and already the Dark Lord's creativity was feeling the strain. And while it was rather enjoyable to think up new horrors to torture the boy with, it was taking up more and more of his time. He had other things to do, after all, from recruiting new followers to torturing and killing Muggles and Mudbloods, to sabotaging the Ministry and concocting evil schemes designed to get around the old fool, Dumbledore. He just didn't have time these days to personally ensure the Potter brat's misery. And yet, no one but he had the connection that enabled him to do it.  
This was the reason he'd sent Avery off to India on rumors of an ancient artifact that might be able to help him. Avery had been gone almost a week now, and had sent word not two hours ago to expect him back shortly, bringing with him the Talisman of Dreams. Which was why he was currently seated in the throne room of his stronghold (all the best Dark Lords had to have thrones, of course, and a room to put them in; it was one of the basic rules of Evil) and examining his claw-like fingernails (a side- effect of an experiment years ago. He didn't really mind; they suited his image nicely, and sometimes came in useful for things like gouging out eyes.) The Death Eaters attending him -- Wormtail had no other place to go, pathetic thing that he was, and Lucius Malfoy was trying not to be too obvious about the fact that he was sitting there doing nothing in an attempt to curry favor by spending his free time at Voldemort's beck and call -- were uneasy at his presence, and trying to hide it, ineffectually. He considered toying with their minds out of boredom, but it would really be too easy, no fun at all.  
When Avery finally arrived, escorted by Crabbe and Goyle ("Idiots!" snarled Lucius. "You're supposed to stay at your posts! Who's guarding the door now?") he was bearing two packages, which he presented to Voldemort with unnecessarily pretentious ceremony. Both packages were labeled, the Dark Lord noted, one with "Talisman of Dreams" and one with "Instruction Manual." Typical Avery. He opened the Talisman first, expecting, perhaps, exquisitely carved precious metal, or a giant crystal, or the mummified head of something. Instead what met his eyes was a simple, crudely shaped coil of pottery. There were a few words sloppily painted on the bottom. He raised an eyebrow at Avery.  
"This is it?"  
"Yes, my Lord."  
"Well, we shall hope, for your sake, that appearances are deceiving. I don't suppose you managed to translate what it says, did you?"  
"According to the instruction manual, it says, 'Powerful magical artifact. Treat with caution.' The words weren't part of the original clay, they were added when it was about a century old after some idiot tried to use it to collect rainwater from his leaky roof. They're still trying to figure out what happened to his house."  
Lord Voldemort sneered. "Thank you, Avery, that was really more than I needed to know. Dare I ask what type of ancient magical artifact actually comes with an instruction manual?"  
"Ah, er, well, it didn't originally, but some scholar apparently decided it would be a good idea to write one. He spent some years researching and wrote down all his findings. I, er, thought there might be something of use, so I -- er -- brought it along," Avery finished lamely. He was wilting under the Dark Lord's continued scowl. A good scowl, Voldemort reflected idly, was really absolutely essential if you wanted to command forces of evil. He neatly slit open the second package (yet another time claws came in useful) revealing the musty tome inside. Opening the book to impossibly cramped handwriting, he began to read out loud.  
"The Talisman of Dreams, being debatably classified as a class five- oh-twenty-nine (my contemporary, Wulfric the Third, insists that it is actually a class five-oh-thirty, but I believe that the circumstances of the maker's grandfather's living accommodations were such as to outweigh the unfortunate circumstances of his having been blind and therefore disadvantaged -- for more details of the argument, see page 427 -- place the object definitively within the parameters of class five-oh-twenty-nine as explained in Artifacts of the Ancients: Random or Coordinated by Pots Digger, a recognized authority) is also considered to be among the thirty three and a half percent of artifacts which are attributed to a single creator, rather than the work of a partnership, team, or government or created in freak accidents . . ."  
Voldemort frowned and skimmed ahead, then flipped a handful of pages forward and began again.  
"The records of how the Talisman fell into the hands of Uric the Oddball are not clear, but most believe that he won it betting on a horserace. This is substantiated by only circumstantial evidence, however, and there are indications that while he did win the bet at a horserace, he was already in possession of the Talisman and winning the bet only allowed him to keep it, also gaining him several hundred live billywigs, with which he . . ."  
"Avery," the Dark Lord said, in the tone of voice he reserved for people too dim to know that they were trying his patience, "does this dust- brained imbecile say anything at all of use?"  
Avery stuttered something incomprehensible.  
"I beg your pardon?" Voldemort asked silkily.  
"Ah, well, you see, I actually didn't think it was necessary -- that is, I wanted to -- or not really, but . . ."  
"You didn't even read it, did you?" Voldemort said coldly. "No matter, I suppose -- at least you got the Talisman. Dismissed."  
Avery gratefully scuttled out.  
  
That night, the Dark Lord sat alone in his chambers. Slowly, he put his wand to his temple and drew out a single glistening memory, the memory of the night he had so briefly possessed Harry Potter. It would be best if he had something directly from the boy himself, of course, but considering the connection this ought to do just as well. Carefully he placed his silvery strand in the Talisman of Dreams. It sunk rapidly into the cracks of the pottery coil, and for a moment nothing happened.  
Then he sat up in bed with a start, even though this should have been impossible since, last time he had checked, he was sitting, and on a chair at that, and it became obvious that not only was he no longer in his own chambers, he was no longer in his own body. And there was a familiar voice in his head demanding to know what on earth or elsewhere he thought he was doing.  
  
------oooooo------  
  
A/N: This is the point at which I lose all personal dignity, self-respect, etc. and start shamelessly begging, blackmailing, and threatening to chase after you with blunt objects and pepper spray, and steal your first-born children, or (gasp) withhold the next chapter. Please, please, please review? Tell me what you liked, what you didn't, which parts only made sense before they left my brain and which probably never made anything resembling sense?  
(Ahem.) Sorry about that. Be sure to check out my Favorite Authors list, because it has quality recommendations, mostly not as strange as this little brainchild of mine. 


	2. Some People Have No Consideration

A/N: Well, I'm sure everyone who cared has given up hope on this ever being updated, and considering it's only the second chapter, that kind of sad. But it's here now. So be happy.  
  
Disclaimer: Doesn't belong to me. I'm sure you knew that.  
  
-----ooooOOOoooo-----  
  
Voldemort, being a rather brilliant evil mastermind (if he did say so himself), quickly figured out where he was. Or, rather, whom he was inhabiting. Harry Potter just always had to mess up all his plans. Every single time. It never failed.  
  
"Excuse me, I didn't do anything. You're the one who always comes chasing after me, remember?"  
  
Voldemort jumped. Or would have, if it weren't for the fact that Dark Lords don't jump. They accept new and surprising developments with poise and dignity.  
  
That, and his body didn't seem to be responding to him.  
  
"That's because it's my body. And you still haven't told me what you're doing in it."  
  
Potter wasn't even speaking out loud, he realized. Well, that made sense. They were, after all, sharing a head. And Potter seemed to have no problem picking up his thoughts. Which was slightly disturbing, come to think about it. The inner thought processes of Dark Lords should really be private, classified information. This situation could not be allowed to continue. He tried to throw himself back into his own body.  
  
Nothing happened.  
  
Well, almost nothing. He did get Potter to laugh at him. He snarled at the boy.  
  
"Don't tell me you're actually happy about my being stuck here?"  
  
"No, I'm happy because you're being thwarted. Again. Although, really, I shouldn't be surprised. It does happen fairly often."  
  
"Let's try this again, Potter. Are you really stupid enough to be happy when the greatest Dark Lord in living memory takes up residence in your head?"  
  
Potter shrugged. "I was getting kind of bored. Having a megalomaniac over, especially one I know well enough not to be concerned about or anything, kind of fixes that problem."  
  
"How dare you, you insolent little brat! I've killed wizards far better than you for less! I ought to grind you into dust where you stand!"  
  
Potter raised an eyebrow. Well, okay, maybe that had sounded a bit stupid. Voldemort settled for a frigid silence.  
  
---o---  
  
The trouble with teenagers these days, Voldemort mused, was that they never took anything seriously. Oh, they were concerned enough about their own little problems -- crushes and teachers who hated them and the odd near- death experience -- but they had no conception of the truly important things, like groundbreaking (if forbidden) new spell research and the survival of the wizarding world and the chess game he'd been in the middle of against Severus the other day.  
  
No, Harry sat here, oblivious to anyone's concern's but his own and refusing, point-blank, to lift a finger to get the greatest Dark Lord of all time out of his head and back where he belonged. It was intolerable. Drastic measures would be required.  
  
"Potter, I'll pay you fifty galleons if you'll cooperate."  
  
"No."  
  
"Alright then, a hundred."  
  
"Don't be stupid."  
  
"How much then?"  
  
"I don't need your money, lizard-brain."  
  
"Fine." Time for plan B, then. "What will everyone say, Potter, when they find out you've been hiding me in your mind? Do you imagine they'll still be willing to be near you?"  
  
"My friends won't desert me."  
  
"Oh, but they will. They'll be terrified, of course. Better for you if you just let me go, and then no one need ever find out, isn't that right?"  
  
"Shut up. You don't know what you're talking about."  
  
"What, no witty comeback? I must have hit a nerve. What would they say, I wonder, if they knew who you were playing host to at the moment?"  
  
"Probably, 'That's a relief, now at least no one else has to look at his ugly face.'"  
  
---ooo---  
  
Potter eventually caved, of course. Nobody said no to Lord Voldemort for long. And if the Dark Lord had a sneaking suspicion that the brat's capitulation had less to do with the strength of his arguments and more to do with the threat of hearing the full results of the Death Eaters' Annual Poetry Writing Convention (Crabbe in particular could churn out incredible quantities of utterly atrocious verse. He'd recited a few of them to Potter, just to get the idea across), well, true Evil was always prepared to use whatever means were at hand to get the job done.  
  
---ooo---  
  
Dear Hermione,  
You'll never guess what just happened to me. Voldemort got his hands on something called the Talisman of Dreams, and he tried to use it against me, to give me nightmares in a lame attempt to surpass the Dursleys at making my life miserable, but he decided to skip straight to using the thing instead of reading the instruction manual, so now he's stuck in my head. Which isn't as bad as the nightmares would have been, because now I can poke fun at him with impunity, and he has to listen to me, but it's still bad enough that I want it over. So, he's going to write a letter to his Death Eaters telling them to send the instruction manual to you, and if you could read it and figure out how to get the evil cockroach and his evil poetry out of my head, I'd really appreciate it.  
Hope your summer is going well.  
  
Your friend, Harry  
  
---o---  
  
Avery,  
I want you to send that infernal manual along with this owl. Do not attach any hexes, curses, locks, or other surprises. Do not read the other letter carried by the owl. Do not inform anyone else of this request. And do not disturb me or allow others to do so up until the next time I call a meeting. Failure to comply will result in your painful and messy death.  
  
Voldemort  
  
---o---  
  
Dear Harry,  
I received your letter and the book that came with it, but it may take me a while to work through it. It's fascinating, of course, but it keeps referring to other books that I haven't got. What I wouldn't give for access to the Hogwarts library right now! But there's a lot of information in the book I haven't gotten to yet (the book's got to be spelled, it's a lot bigger inside than it is outside, and it's no shrimp outside) and who knows, I may be able to figure it out yet. I can't work on it as much as I'd like to, either, because my cousin's visiting from America, and my parents are insisting that we give her the full tour of Important Things To See in Britain, so I don't have much time to myself, but I am studying the book every spare moment I can. Good thing I'd gotten most of my summer work done already!  
The Talisman of Dreams, from what I've read, is pretty strange. It tends to be unpredictable and also seems to have a sense of humor. A lot of what it does turns out to be deliberately ironic in one way or another. For example, the painter who did the warning on the talisman, every time he tried to paint something after that, some of the paint would end up on his forehead, spelling out, "beware the painter whose canvas seeks art." Which you can spend a really long time puzzling over if you want, but that seems typical of the talisman. Sorry this isn't more help. I'll write again when I have more. Hope you're holding up well, all things considered.  
  
With love from, Hermione.  
  
-----ooooOOOoooo-----  
  
A/N: I'd like to take this time to thank all the lovely people who left me reviews last chapter. They made me very, very happy. Bouncing-off-the- walls happy. They even (well, eventually) inspired me to sit down and write some more. So thank you, very much. And more reviews would be greatly appreciated. Constructive criticism (or information on how to get ff.n to double-space) is particularly welcome.  
  
Oh, and don't forget to check out my Favorite Authors list, which is made up of some of the best writers in the fandom.  
  
Floppy disks are evil. Just so's you know. 


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